


A fruit worth biting

by GoldenHavoc



Series: Beautiful Trauma [2]
Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Stefano‘s new in town, and Sebastian‘s far too nice for his taste, crushing Stefano, he hates critics, though veiled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 04:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/GoldenHavoc
Summary: So this is how Eve felt when she saw the fruit hanging there in the tree, branch burdened by the plump, blushing weight. The overripe lure, close to the eye, yet ever far from a watering mouth’s grip. Stefano wonders how Theodore would have answered to his interpretation of the Original Sin. No good for sure. His God might have gifted him with the talent of speech, but he’s also left him a troublesome lack of imagination beyond the bible tales.He closes his eyes, and Sebastian’s stubble scratches against his cheek, the low rumble of his baritone a calming rebound in his ear.'Ciao', he said. This idiot. He wants him. He wants him dead.





	A fruit worth biting

**Author's Note:**

> This here's pretty much a scene fragment that doesn't want to fit in anywhere but here. If you enjoy or not is up to you ;)

 

 

 

“Apparently, I’m not even good enough to be criticized anymore”, Stefano says, a bitter edge to it. He throws the paper back in its holder, tearing his gaze away with as much force as he can manage. His head bows low and he bites his lower lip to keep in the swear that lurks beneath his tongue.

He told himself to be realistic about the outcome of last evening often enough. Caran is a critic of high-society, an icon of taste, a proclaimed monument of man. His words – the mere implication of a snarl, – tear people’s reputation to shreds. He’s been prepared for destruction after the desastrous way the exhibition had gone, but this act of apathy? He hasn’t calculated such cruelty either. Phi gave voice to her contempt; Caran didn’t even make use of the printer’s ink.

Sebastian watches him with a quizzical glint in his eyes as he takes a long pull from his cigarette. Seconds pass, their cloudlets of breath phantom-white in October air. He lets it fall to the ground with the ashes still glowing. Putting them out with his heel, the spark scratches into marble.

“No one said that.” The words lie genuine on his tongue. To Stefano, they’re a hot needle plunged into an old, open wound. The sheer naivité in his voice almost makes him laugh in a way while the familiar wet sheen starts warping his gaze. He stares down the ground in front of his feet.

“No one has to, detective. I hear what they fail to express.“ The world shakes at the corners of his vision, chest rigid, hands stiff. A miracle his voice hasn’t given out yet or he didn’t sink to his knees, his aching head clutched between his palms, mourning a greatness he would never know.

He’s getting better at this, handling the rejection of strangers, powerful or not. Each day another break, another glare, another step forward despite the backs turned at him, hands held in the air unshaken, brushing folds out of trousers feigning indifference. Someday, he’ll be able to ignore them once and for all. He’ll stop caring about their hard, pinched mouths or the whispers that gather. Hell, he might stop feeling altogether whenever he pleases to do so.

What a heavenly condition this would be. It isn’t likely he’ll ever reach it.

For you see, make-believe only goes so far when he isn’t in his studio. Where he paints nightmares on canvas, and the thick scent of oil and carved blood he’s surrounded by has him dreaming, tableaus hypnotic and raw. It’s easier to imagine freedom when the leather shields his fingertips from cuts, dust and unwanted touch. His mind seems a much safer place than the world waiting behind that door. This unclean, unkind utopia is not the home he yearned for when he was born.

“In your world,“ he says to Sebastian, gathering enough spite in his vocals to evoke anger, “fists speak louder than words. In mine, faces do the same. And silence… silence is the worst punishment public has to offer.”

A whiff of frozen air blows creases on his suit jacket. Putting his arms around himself, he squeezes his body for a hidden hint of warmth to shed. A grim shadow paints across the part of his face not curtained by hair. Sebastian, though wearing nothing but grey trousers, a thin cotton-shirt and the wrinkled coat he never seems to take off, even in summer, barely shivers. The fabric’s worn-out and stained from years of use since he never cares enough to wash it – or so Stefano thinks. It’s a poor, ragged thing and he wonders more than once if a man in his position really can’t afford a new wardrobe to go with the job.

He doesn’t know the coat is Sebastian’s most precious possession next to the ring that still clings to his hand. He would have hit anyone daring to touch either of them without his permission. ( _He has done so in the past for reasons far less insulting_ ).

All the same, Stefano’s head jerks up in alarm when said coat drapes around his shoulders. His senses engulf in the smell of cigarette ash and strong liquor.

“What–”

“–I studied your face for a sec. It told me you’re cold”, Sebastian says, his face illegible as stone. It takes a blink before Stefano recognizes the backlash of his own words. He huffs, eying the cloth and its rough texture with suspicion.

“It’s… dirty.” Sebastian shrugs.

“Better to be dirty than frostbitten.” Stefano glares at him. What else to expect from a neanderthal. His lid lowers, accentuating thick, black lashes.

“Hardly. I prefer to die handsome.” The minute he says it, he awaits the usual mocking to follow like the thunder breaking the sky after lightning. Instead, a low chuckle is his answer. He looks up, brows knitted in confusion. Though during the last three months he’s had the luck – or rather troublesome habit – of meeting the detective under most uncomfortable circumstances, it’s the first time Stefano hears him emit such sound. It’s nice to listen to actually. What a horrid discovery to make.

“Know what? I’m starting to think you actually mean what you say.” A grin spreads the corners of Sebastian’s coffee and mint-busied mouth if only an inch. One more, and Stefano might have seen the crinkles around his eyes dug in by better days. But he doesn’t and this sudden glow that frames Sebastian’s face is irritating enough to handle, so Stefano should probably be glad about it.

“I usually do.” He pulls the coat tighter with spread-out fingertips. “What about you?“ he asks, surveying Sebastian’s appearance. “You’ve got goosebumps.”

Sebastian blinks. He beholds his forearms like foreign creatures, little hairs peeking upward like spikes. He tilts his head in blunt wonder, eyes widening; apparently he didn’t even realize the chill affecting his body. Amused, Stefano watches him shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep them from stiffening. He notes the chapped skin of his knuckles before the denim passes over flesh.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m not easy to knock down.”

“I noticed that. Your occupation requires a sturdy fellow after all.” Stefano glances up at the ashen sky turning steel on the horizon. Snowflakes started to fall during their encounter. They scatter across his hair, cold as a graveyard’s kiss. The dampness ensuing as the water eats through and touches his scalp excites and irks him at the same time. He’ll never get used to the low temperatures Krimson thrives in. He’d give the world for the sweet sway of Florence air once evening settles in. Or for a comb at any given time of day.

“We should find shelter. A storm's moving towards us,” he murmurs. Sebastian looks up himself, and squints his eyes.

“You ’feel’ the storm? Is that an artist thing?” Stefano raises a neatly plucked brow.

“Not that I know of. I do have a few quirks since I came back from the war though. Some are helpful, others…” His hand reaches up to check upon the bang covering his bad eye. A sigh escapes his lips. “rather distracting.”

Silence follows like a plague and makes Stefano regret having answered truthfully. He loathes the reactions to follow when he mentions the war; or forced non-reactions in that case, scared to either insult or humor him by chance. He perceives Sebastian checking his watch, huffs inwardly. The gesture’s oh so subtle in its telling.

“Well, it’s getting late. I better should be going then“, he says, only a bit tactless. Stefano didn’t expect anything less. He forces a smile.

“Of course.“ He wants to lift his hand for a formal goodbye, yet his arm refuses his command. It hangs down his side like steel, so he merely nods.

The detective turns on his heel. Stefano feels himself die a little inside as he watches his steps that lead him away. But he’s used to this and too old to run after someone who’s eager to leave. He turns the other way and hides his hands in his pockets, malcontent and grave.

He’s barely crossed Victorian Street when he halts in his movements, struck by worse than lightning. Those aren’t his pockets. He usually doesn’t feel this warm. The snow has gotten worse, raining down white and clogged, and would have dampened the shoulders of the suit he liked so much hadn’t they been protected by a second layer. And usually he doesn’t smell of worn-out tobacco and Single Malt Whiskey either.

He still has the hideous piece of fabric pulled tight around himself Sebastian calls his coat. He grits his teeth. Fucking glorious. What to do now? He doesn’t know where Sebastian lives; let alone which places he prefers to spend his free time in once he escapes the police headquarters. He isn’t fond of the thought of going back there so quickly; more than capable to cover his traces, the argillaceous interior has him gag for aesthetics’ sake, not to mention the onslaught of uniforms catching his sight.

Uniforms are hideous signs of conformity. Whether they’re green, brown or blue, it doesn’t matter. All they portray is a master’s demand to be served may it be through obedience or blood. It hurts his eye.

The coat clads around him like a foreboding. He sighs. His hair is terribly soaked either way, his mood gone down the drain. What does a detour to the KCPD change much about it?

He swiftly turns around only to have someone bump straight into him. He’d have greeted the slippery sidewalk with his face (an irrevocable improvement of what fell down on it otherwise, mind you) hadn’t hands clutched at his forearms and pulled him forth to keep the balance. Stefano’s already about to give the brute a piece of his mind when he recognizes the blatant panic chiseled on the smear of a face he’s learned to be used to looking at lately.

“Shit! Sorry, you alright?“

Well, and of course _that_  gives him away too. No one has curses roll off his tongue more quickly than this man.

Said particular man puts one of his palms on his knees and nearly buckles over as he pants with strain, holding onto him. Stefano gets a good look on his thick thatch of hair decked by ice crystals, some more twinkling than others, a pattern so delicately constructed it simply has nature’s signature written over it. The curl that uses to stick out and adorn his forehead with a ridiculous _Clark Kent_ touch glues beneath his brows like a gnarled branch, hopelessly sodden and pitch-dark.

Stefano catches himself wishing to kneel down with him and pull it. He doesn’t have it in him to say yes, or no, or _fanculo, this is_ _exactly_ _why I didn’t want this_ so he simply raises his brows with the glacial air he has mastered since youth.

“I’m perfectly fine.“ He fluently retracts himself from the other man’s grip and takes one step back to regain his composure. “You know, some people would’ve simply called me up – I remember my number’s been saved in the files you gathered. Or I could’ve just come to the police station and hand the coat to one of your colleagues,“ he chides drily.

After Sebastian has recovered enough to meet him eye to eye, a fleeting look has his pupils expand with recognition, the iris a cognac rim around each. Recognition and a needle’s sting of old, fermented guilt. It doesn’t escape Stefano. It only makes him wonder about its cause.

“Ah. Yeah, I know. That’s not why I ran.“ He clears his throat, hands lowering on his hips. “It’s actually – I know a nice little restaurant two blogs away.” His expression turns flimsy, wavering between what to portray and what to mean with it. Stefano tilts his head, the whole ordeal gaining his attention. It takes a notable while till Sebastian settles with a print of slight panic. “…You like pasta, right?“ he blurts at last. Judging by Stefano’s motionless face, he might or might have not made a blunder. He does a flappy gesture. “Since – Since you’re Italian and all. It’s got more than pasta though.“

Now it’s Stefano who stares dumbfounded. Stares at the man who’d have made a terrible figure in chasing a burglar had he been one (he’s never been interested in these petty crimes, not even as a child). All this way and energy, his wasted breath cringing in the frozen air to invite him to dinner. _Utterly ridiculous_ barely scratches the surface of what Stefano would define their situation as. But it’s sickenly endearing too, and _this_ he hates most of all.

His pupil swallows the winter light and turns irreversibly blank. The coat weighs heavy as iron. He shakes the cloth of his shoulders, immediate cold biting the skin underneath his shawl. Not as cold as his voice, though.

“You don’t have to buy me dinner to cheer me up, detective. I don’t take well to pity.” Sebastian halts, if only a second. Then, he laughs in his face, startling Stefano more, _angering_ him further. It’s become ugly habit, apparently. They just _have_ to clash.

“You got it all wrong, buddy,“ Sebastian jokes, ignoring Stefano’s scowl in progress. “Who said I was going to buy you dinner? I’m hungry and thought maybe you’d like to tag along. I didn’t come to force you to join in or anything.”

He gives a wry smile, not hostile in the least though his tone could’ve induced else. There’s something completely infuriating about this smile. The way the corners of his mouth peek up flashing, with eyes tired from a life too heavy to bear for common bones. Stefano feels drawn to it like a moth to light, despite his fury, perhaps because of it. It has his pulse increase ever so slighty by a streetlamp’s shine that reflects in amber, the crinkles around it digging shadows. He knows what this means, what it becomes and it’s exhausting to even consider it at the moment. He’s fairly new in Krimson, a stranger to strangers. Whichever notion of mutual sympathy he’ll allow to seep through will end in blood and sour the footing he intends to set in this town. He isn’t any good with relationships these days. Not with the living, at least.

“I don‘t think this would be a good idea,“ he says at last. It might be mere wishful thinking on his part, but Sebastian’s face falls a little at that. He resumes quickly though, displaying a brazen grin.

“Sure.“ A pause. “I don’t pity you, by the way. I should pity the fool who thinks pitying you is a good idea while I’m around.”

Stefano’s heart throbs out of tune at that. It makes up the stop by doubling its pace like a starved animal shrieked to life in its cage. His stiff fingers itch for his knife, anything.

“Oh? Why is that?” he asks, though he’s keen on knowing the answer already. Sebastian tilts his chin. He bares his throat, displaying the slight bulge of his Adam’s apple by default. Stefano licks his upper lip at the sight, glancing away. But he comes back all the same. 

So this is how Eve felt when she saw the fruit hanging there in the tree, branch burdened by the plump, blushing weight. The overripe lure, close to the eye, yet ever far from a watering mouth’s grip. Stefano wonders how Theodore would have answered to his interpretation of the Original Sin. No good for sure. His God might have gifted him with the talent of speech, but he’s also left him a troublesome lack of imagination beyond the bible tales.

“You probably noticed my chapped knuckles. They’re not chapped from the cold”, Sebastian says, each word a pinch more sweetened in Stefano’s ears than they actually are. He shrugs his shoulders, relieving some of the tension in them probably. “So? Are you coming or what?“

Stefano pulls the coat closer around himself. Clean-cut nails clench around the musty fabric.

“Do you think I could eat? After the humiliation I've been put through?“

“Sure“, Sebastian cocks his head, amusement splayed in the corners of his mouth. “Even artists gotta eat. I’ll feed you if I have to.“

Stefano feels the heat creep up his cheeks at the very images Sebastian’s idea procures. He doesn’t even seem to realize what he provokes. A fool’s blessing, really. Stefano can’t remember himself to ever been this naive.

“People will talk. They’ll start associating us with each other,“ he says warily. It’s the first time Sebastian throws him an annoyed glance.

“Hey, do I look like I fucking care what people think? Come, or hand me back my coat. I won’t ask a third time.“

“You’re terribly coarse,“ Stefano grits out. “And rude. I – I think I’ve never met a person ruder than you! Not even back on the frontline.“

“Wow.“ Sebastian crosses his arms. He pauses, pondering. “And? What else you got?“

“What do you mean?“

“Listen, Stef –“

„Don’t call me that.“

“Listen, Stefano.“ Sebastian holds up his hands in defeat. Snowflakes sit on the handle of the pistol attached to his belt. “If you’re worried about your reputation, I understand. I got a reputation myself, and it ain’t been pretty for a while now.“

He talks casually about it, features relaxed and unoffended. Like he had to say this a couple of times before. Stefano’s eye narrows.

“That’s not it,“ he murmurs, irritated. Sebastian cocks his head.

“Then what’s the problem? Two dudes grabbing a bite. Is that so outrageous in your world?“ He laughs. “Wouldn’t survive a day in there.“

Stefano bites his lip and looks away. A tease, isn’t it? It‘s been ages since he‘s been teased. And he can‘t remember the last time someone‘s invited him to dine. Not here anyway, in this harsh, forsaken city. If he‘s honest for once, he dreads to think of coming back to his apartment. He‘s been alone pretty much half of his life, unbothered, but he‘s never felt the teeth of loneliness dig so deep into his flesh since he‘s stepped out of this airplane five months ago. It’s a festering disease. In the long run, it won‘t do his inspiration any good.

“Do they… have good chianti? Maybe I could use a glass to warm up,“ he says faintly, and wants to bite his tongue the minute the words spring from his mouth, rip the thinness from his vocal cords. Sebastian shrugs a shoulder, but his gaze is alight with a childish triumph that leaves Stefano weak in the knees, heart thrumming.

“Don‘t know. I never drank that since I’m no Dr. Lecter. You’ve got to find this one out for yourself.“ He fucking _winks_.

Stefano‘s blood rushes like a river. This is a bad idea. He’s new. He should strive to associate with models and the like, people of his kind, not with an unlucky cop. Literally every other occupation but that in this doomed position of his.

He ponders. No. No, he can’t do that. It would be in their both’s best interest to say goodbye and mean it. Someone has to be the adult here, and though Sebastian‘s older, Stefano has watched more lives fade out and into nothing than Sebastian could ever fear to encounter. While he‘s made it his job to save people, Stefano chose to embrace their turmoil instead, to create, slice and end whenever his composition demands it.

He‘ll be damned if his next work contains eyes he‘s felt comforted by. Eyes that keep the sunlight he finds himself dearly missing here.

He gulps down the lump that threatens to enclose his throat, and opens his mouth to decline him and whatever this may be for once and for all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When they arrive at the restaurant, Sebastian guids him to a cozy table at the back of the room. The roughened quality of his palm drapes flat between Stefano’s shoulder blades, ever talking, ever present with the hulk of his smile hidden beneath his teeth and the bags under his eyes unfavorably prominent under stark ceiling light. He asks him what he’d like, and despite Stefano’s earlier refusal he allows him to order for the two of them and pay in cash afterwards. They eat and talk and drink and talk some more. The chianti _is_  to his taste, but Stefano cares hardly about. He him about his beginnings, why he wanted to join the police to begin with, and Sebastian gushes over the dusted version of justice his thick skull carries together with some unsurprisingly virtuous anecdotes, and the appaling normality of his college days. Stefano, otherwise bored out of his mind, can’t help but hang onto his every word.

When they say farewell in earnest hours later, the darkness an ink-black roof above, he holds Sebastian’s ruined hands in his gloved ones, planting a peck on his scruffy cheek while mumbling something about Italian goodbye rituals. Sebastian, baffled, replies with a weak _Ciao_ and Stefano laughs. He‘d have laughed about everything with his lips still tingling from the contact. He still traces the shape of his mouth with his thumb when he locks himself in his apartment. Knees turn to heated wax the moment his back presses to the door. He slides down to the floor and hugs them to his chest. Staring at a blind spot on the wall opposite of him, nothing, _nothing_  conquers his mind. He’s shaking, but he won’t recognize his condition till it’s gone.

They will meet for lunch tomorrow and he isn’t as afraid as he should be. They’ll go to the movies and he already knows he’ll rather watch Sebastian’s expressions provoked by the scenes than the scenes themselves. His profile emerges behind his eyelids each time he blinks. 

He’s doomed, and he knows it. He’s exhilarated for the first time in what feels like another life, and the desire to kill blends simultaneously with the desire to wrap himself around a willing body and give into the illusion of... of what? It‘s hard to put it in words, let alone on canvas.

He buries his face against smooth cotton. How can men accuse Eve of temptation when God himself created such beautiful and destructive sin in the husk of man as a whole? What level of pretentiousness does it take to refute one’s own desire so much you have to trade curiosity for weakness – adoration for lack of will? He closes his eyes, and Sebastian’s stubble scratches against his cheek, the low rumble of his baritone a calming rebound in his ear. Now  _that_ is a prayer he can memorize. Screw Theodore and his book the size of a skull.

 _Ciao_. This idiot. He wants him. He wants him (dead).

Emitting a quiet sigh, he forces himself back up, brushes the non-existent dust off his pants and staggers to the bathroom, preparing for a hot shower to wash Krimson’s smog off his flesh.

He’s found a fruit worth biting. All he wonders is how long it’ll take until he’s chewed and swallowed it down to its seeds.

 

 


End file.
